paint the all unutterable
by black-ostia
Summary: merlin dreams that arthur is an artist. /merlinarthur/


**warning: do not read if you do not like slash or all lowercase paragraphs.**

* * *

one night, merlin dreams that arthur is an artist.

merlin's sprawled out on a stained couch, motionless, blinking uselessly against the light that maps his skin with shadows. it's too bright to see arthur, or anything, really, but merlin can hear him softly humming to himself, stirring his brush around in the sharp-smelling solution. merlin's naked. merlin's _naked_, and once that particular puzzle piece has snapped into place panic grabs him by the throat, and he suddenly wants his pants.

"i want my pants," he says, sounding like a five year old. "i mean… are you painting me?"

arthur 'hmm's from somewhere beyond the light.

"good grief, merlin, of course i'm not painting you, i've got a still life set up here. what are you talking about?"

_oh gods,_ merlin thinks, snapping out of his pose, practically somersaulting over a footstool in his haste to get off the couch and put some pants on. _what in seven hells was _that_?_

* * *

the next night, merlin dreams of the couch again, only this time he's holding a bouquet of lilies over the fork of his legs.

from beyond the light, he hears a soft patting sound, slightly wet like thick liquid against waxed paper. the tang of paint thinner makes him wrinkle his nose.

"hey, arthur?" he calls out, "this is really…creepy. what are the lilies for?"

"i don't know what you're talking about," arthur says, distracted. merlin wonders if arthur heard the words, or just the sounds his manservant made.

"i've got _lilies_ over my…my unmentionables, arthur, and – are you painting me? because otherwise i'm not sure why i'm holding these."

there's a film of sweat forming between merlin's thighs, merlin notices, and he really wants to get up and cover himself completely. arthur doesn't answer him right away, but merlin hears more patting, a couple of glassy clinks, and the sound of something metal being set down on metal.

"merlin, no, i don't know why you keep asking me –"

then someone giggles in arthur's general vicinity, girlish and giddy, and it startles merlin because he had no idea anyone else was around. he hears arthur laugh softly back, murmur some words, and – oh heavens no, that's the sound of clothes being undone and dropping to the floor. he springs off the couch, tossing the lilies on the ground, crushing the petals under his feet as he looks around for his pants.

"gods, arthur, get a room."

* * *

here he is again: the couch, the smells, the light. merlin hears the jumbled murmurs of a crowd he can't see so it's definitely not just him and arthur this time. the girl is there somewhere – he's certain it's the same girl – and she has a dagger. he doesn't know how he knows, but he knows.

"she has a dagger, arthur," he croaks.

merlin's naked, and he looks down at his body because it's the only thing he can see with the light shining in his eyes. a roll of stomach fat finds its way to his hands, or that's not right – the other way – but he's counting them now. there are two rolls, and then there are three rolls, and he's actually finding more popping up around his elbows, his thighs, his wrists even. he's pretty sure he's sprouting fat rolls, and his fingers are slowly ballooning into things he doesn't recognise, and he doesn't even think to ask arthur if he's painting merlin this time.

then a choked gasp rings out.

the crowd goes silent for a second, then bursts into sickening applause, and merlin knows with a twist in his gut that arthur has been stabbed.

"there was no girl," arthur yells over the noise. "this was all my idea. tell them..."

* * *

from the moment he realises he's on the couch, merlin can feel that something is wrong. the air thrums with it. there is no smell of solvent, no patting of paint into canvas, but there is this noticeable absence of something, like the space was inverted to become a tangible _lack_.

he stumbles off the couch, squinting painfully against the light before finding the candelabra and killing the flames. his eyes are adjusting, but there's no arthur in this room. there are piles upon piles of paper – stacks as high as the ceiling, a slight breeze making them flutter like butterfly wings.

catching a glimpse of the easel and its abandoned painting between the stacks, merlin tries to get closer, to finally see it, but his feet will only move with an aching slowness, like he's wading through mud, clay and sand. when he finally reaches it, the colours are blurry, and washed out, so he squints, hoping to sharpen it up with his mind, and it kind of works. but as the painting comes into focus, his stomach drops.

between patches of deep reds and muted greens rests a figure, the face of whom can only belong to merlin. and stranger yet, this merlin is laying on a bed of clover. flowers are sprouting out of his chest – crisp daisies and roses and honeysuckle – and from his throat, white orchids are spilling out and up, into the vast blue sky like a wisp of a cloud or a prayer.

"there was no still life," merlin accuses the empty room, "you lied to me _and _you disappeared."

* * *

arthur kills the candlelight in this dream, and merlin finally – finally – can see his face, the swatches of blonde hair plastered over his forehead, the tanned hands shaking a bit as he sets down his paintbrush.

"merlin," he says, not meeting merlin's eyes, and merlin know it's his way of asking him to walk over there, so he does.

merlin says, "arthur."

he's taking his fingertips and brushing arthur's hair out of his eyes with this strange, newfound assurance, as though he's parting clouds in the sky with a word.

"merlin."

arthur asks him to help him take his clothes off, and only then does merlin look down and realise he's already naked, as he always is, and arthur's gaze is a warmth on his skin like sunlight.

"alright," he says.

and together, methodically, they pull fabric away, until there's nothing left but skin and arthur, while the flowers bloom up around the both of them.

* * *

**notes: i don't know if paint thinner was already around in albion- times. for the sake of the story, ignore that. hehe.**

**reviews are love.**


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